Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?